Dinosaurs!

 I just realized that I didn't write about the dinosaurs.  That was on Sept. 6.

Anyway, there are often special events at the Civic Center, and on Sept. 6 they had the Jurassic Quest, a travelling dinosaur exhibit.  https://www.jurassicquest.com/

Rob and Amanda decided to bring Zeke up for it.  They try to give Zeke as many experiences as possible (like doing Tree to Tree).  They sometimes feel that Zeke got the short end of the stick.  When Dane was 7 they moved to Belgium, and eventually drove over the Alps to go live in Naples, Italy for a few years.  He's ice skated in Paris, played in the snow in Norway, and got his scuba diving certificate diving among Roman ruins.

Zeke has gotten Panama City, Florida.  With first a Cat 5 Hurricane when he was about 5 which disrupted everybody's lives, and then the Covid lockdown.

Anyway - adventures where you find them.  And it was fun.  The lighting in the Civic Center was dim, with red and green lights, the dino animatronics were huge and roaring, and it was just pretty darned impressive.

And there were games for Zeke to play and stuff to crawl on, and we all went out for hamburgers afterwards.

And, for the most part, I handled it well.  I do OK when I know where the triggers are.  Bob and I used to go to the Civic Center events together, and as he was well in touch with his inner 8-year-old, he would have loved this one.  And been impressed by the really good paint job on the dinosaurs.  And had fun watching Zeke run around.  I was ready for all those thoughts.

But there was one moment.  We were standing at the rope around a stage area, waiting for the dino show (a guy wearing a dinosaur puppet/suit).  Rob was standing behind Amanda and Zeke.  He casually put his hand on Amanda's shoulder.   And for a moment I almost lost it.  Just a offhand, affectionate touch, but something that I had for 48 years, but haven't had at all for the last two and a half.  Bob would have been standing behind me, and just for a moment I could feel him - feel the way I would lean back against him, that warm and solid "Wall o' Bobby."

I just never know when it's going to hit, what will trigger.  I'm good at hiding it.  And there's that outer me that was genuinely enjoying all the exhibits and the fun day (and mostly-vegetarian me really glommed onto that hamburger).

I Didn't Do It First Thing

 At 6:15 this evening, I washed the car.

I had my shift at the museum this morning and then, as usual, came home, had lunch, and took a nap.  I never used to be much of a nap taker, but I have to admit that the museum work in this heat gets me knackered.

I hadn't washed the car in a couple of months because it was raining every single blessed day so why bother.  But it hasn't rained for about a week and the car was looking a bit grungy.

It wasn't the fact that I washed it that's noteworthy.  It was the time.

For 48 years we did stuff on Bob time, which, more precisely, was Bob's Mother's Time.  She had this thing about if something had to be done, it had to be done First Thing In The Morning.  At at absolute crunch, it could be finished up Right After Lunch.

But you never started anything in the afternoon.  That would be "too late."

And that got ingrained into Bob, and therefore into me.  Although from time to time I would question it.  I remember one afternoon, when we were talking about some sort of house project we would be doing the next day, and he said that we should roll out of bed and get going in the morning, rather than dawdling over breakfast, because we had to get to Lowe's for supplies and then get to work.

We  were having this discussion about 3 o'clock in the afternoon.  I made the obvious suggestion:  "Why don't we go to Lowe's now and get the supplies?"

The answer:  "It's too late today."  I countered with the fact that while it does take a little over a half hour to get to Lowe's, they were going to be open another 6 hours so we had plenty of time.  But no - we would go First Thing In The Morning.

Coupled with First Thing In The Morning was While You Were At It.  In the case of washing the car, well, as long as you were washing one car you might as well bring the truck around and wash that, and maybe spray on the tire dressing, and where was that stuff you use to polish the headlights, and get the extension cord and the shop vac so you could vacuum the inside and and and . . . .    and then you didn't have time to do all that so the cars would stay dirty until you did have time First Thing In The Morning.  Which might be a few more weeks.

But I'm not on that time frame now - and gradually I've been breaking the habit.  If I decide the car looks dirty at 6:00 p.m., I can grab the hose and bucket and car wash and 20 minutes later I have a clean car and I'm putting the stuff away.  I've started trash fires at 3:00 in the afternoon.  I can decide to do yard work at 5:00 or clean the bathroom at 9:00 p.m.  It really doesn't matter.

And sometimes I wonder.  What idiosyncrasies do I have that amused him?  Or annoyed him?  Or that he just got used to and didn't even notice anymore?  If the situation was reversed, how much would he be missing them? 

Long Live the King

 It happened.  Queen Elizabeth passed away.  Prince Charles is now King Charles.

And I feel a little lost.  She was crowned 10 months before I was born.  In a world where everything changes, she was a constant.  No matter what happened, Elizabeth was the Queen.

And now the earth has shifted a little.

Even when I (all of us) were expecting it, when the news broke it felt like a physical blow to the chest.  I somehow didn't think it would actually happen.

I miss Bob.

How's that for a segue?  Bob's gone.  He has been for 2 1/2 years.  And yet, I still carry him with me.  I can hear his voice.  I can feel him standing behind me.  I have my memories.  But the kicker is that we stopped making new memories.  Stopped sharing things.

In Bob's world, Queen Elizabeth is still alive.  So is Alex Trebek.  And the cats Wilhelm, Nazgul, Apache, and Tula.  He doesn't know how bad or how strange Covid got (how could a virus become political).  He doesn't know about George Floyd, or the Black Lives Matter movement.  He doesn't know about the January 6 insurrection. Or that a ship got stuck in the Suez canal, Russia invaded Ukraine, or that climate change seems to have hit a tipping point

He doesn't know that the bedroom ceiling fell in, or that I had to get the AC and the front deck replaced.  Or that the old shed collapsed and I had it torn down and hauled off.  That Rob and Jeff moved to Tennessee. He doesn't know that I bought a battery lawnmower and put it together myself.

For 48 years we shared everything.  For the last 2 1/2 we have shared nothing.  And sometimes it hits home.  

I'll miss the Queen.  I am so glad that my final memory of her was that of her and Paddington Bear having tea.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7UfiCa244XE

Up in the Trees Again

 Looking at the blog and realize I did not post my adventures of August 6.

Last April Rob and Amanda and Zeke came to visit, and we went to the museum.  Zeke was very excited - he felt he was too old now for the kid's version of the Tree to Tree Adventure (zip lines and ropes course) and was ready to go on the grownup course.  We tried gently to clue him in that we didn't think he was quite tall enough (you have to be 54" tall).  He was sure that if he stood on his toes just a little, and maybe fluffed up his hair, he would be there.  None of us wanted to be the heavy, so I took him over to the Tree to Tree kiosk and asked their opinion.  Nope.  54" is aabsolutely  the bare minimum, and he was about an inch short if he stood flat footed and unfluffed the hair.

Disappointment and tears ensued.

So he's been doing his best to grow.  And sometime in the first week of August, he asked Rob to measure him, and, sure enough, he was 54.5" high.  "Hooray!  I'm tall enough!  We can go this weekend!!"

Yeah, sure.  In August.  Hot, humid.  Temps in the 90's.  Heat index in the low 100's.  What fun.

And why should that matter to me?  Well, 54" is actually not quite tall enough to be able to reach up to clip onto the lines successfully - you need a taller companion.  Amanda is a wuss and will not go up.  Rob is a wuss and will not go up, but at least he had the excuse of his knee being trashed (he was having surgery in a week).  That left good ol' Aunt Ann.

Did I mention it's August?  And Amanda decided to sleep in that day (she works nights) so it was noon.  In August.

But I owe Zeke.  Every time they come to visit, he insists that they stop by the store to bring me a box of Twinkies.  I'm in his debt.

Quick flashback here.  8 years ago his older brother Dane wanted to do the Tree to Tree - and good ol' Aunt Ann was the one to go with him.  In August.  Damned near killed me.

Eight years later, I'm at it again.  I am so grateful that they don't have a third child.

(as an aside, I don't mind looking older and grayer in the second picture - after all, it's 8 years later.  But I find it annoying that I look chonkier, despite the fact that I actually weigh about 15 pounds less.  But, thanks to a gently collapsing spine, I'm about 2 inches shorter.  I'm slowly turning into a short round hobbit)

But bonding is bonding.  And I loved it when we were up in the treetops and he looked at me with his big brown eyes and said "Aunt Ann - this is the bravest thing I've ever done in my life."

There are two parts to the Tree to Tree.  The 54" height will let you go on the first part.  I was grateful for this fact; the second part is more challenging.  Did I mention the 100 degree heat index?  So I was grateful when we finished it and were down on the ground.  Except then our guide said "well, if you like you can do the first half of the second part."  My heart sank.  Zeke was ecstatic.  So we climbed up the ladder for the second part.

The weather gods were with me.  We were on the second station when the guide apologized - but the afternoon storms were coming in, lightening was on the radar, and they had to close down.  I shed no tears.  Zeke *said* he was disappointed, but I think in his heart of hearts he was also a little relieved.

But I've promised him that we can go again, and do both courses.  Maybe in November.  I am bloody through doing that in August.

This is My Life Now

 This is my life now.

That's a phrase that runs through my mind every now and then.

It happened on Tuesday.  I had to go grocery shopping after work, but I was tired, hot, sweaty, and hungry so I did the logical thing and had some lunch.  There is a bagel shop between work and Publix; Bob and I used to go there for coffee, a bagel (cheese schmear for me, bacon with extra bacon for him),  read our books, and chat.

Tuesday I munched, sipped, and read.  Alone.  And when I got up, the thought drifted through: this is my life now.

I went next door to the pet shop to get a new air stone for my aquarium.  It used to be Bob's, but it's mine now.  Then grocery shopping for one.

I've been feeling it a lot lately.  Mostly because of our friend Kim.  She was the one who came to Gainesville for a couple of days to take care of Bob so that I could come home, regroup, check on the cats, and get my mind wrapped around the idea that we might be losing this battle.

And she just lost a similar battle.  About a month ago her mother went into the hospital to have a port put in for dialysis.  The plan was for her to be in the hospital for a day, maybe two, then come home but have to go to dialysis three days a week.  But, as too often happens when there are serious health issues, a cascade of events started going wrong.  So the plan got changed to having to go to rehab for awhile first.  Then the doctors started talking about palliative care.  And her mother fought the idea at first, but then realized it was the best option, and Kim brought her home.

So I've been in daily contact - several times a day - with Kim.  Texting because she wasn't sure she could hold herself together enough to talk.  I wish I could do more, but I'm in Florida and she's in Arizona, but moral support helps.

But let me tell you, the flashbacks have been fierce, both about Bob and my mother.  Making and standing by that decision to allow someone to die.  Sometimes I can almost feel my wings as the Angel of Death.  The angel who can love enough to let go.

Today I had to go into town to get labwork done for my physical next week.  Afterward (because it was fasting bloodwork) I went to Panera's for a coffee and pastry.  I don't often get to this side of town (heck, for the past 2 1/2 years, I've hardly gone anywhere.)  I pull into the center with Panera's and stare at the Publix there for a few minutes.  It's the "grownup" Publix, rather more interesting than the student Publix on our side of town.  The oncology clinic isn't far from here, so we would stop by after his treatments to pick up something good for dinner.  They had the "ready to cook" dinners like feta stuffed chicken.  I don't think they do that any more - another thing Covid took away.

I turned away and went in - I placed my order on a tablet and picked up from a counter when I got a text that it was ready.  No human contact.  I ate my bear claw, drank coffee, read my book, occasionally glanced around the room at the couples and small groups chatting away.  And thought "this is my life now."

The is an Old English word that I like: "geardagum."  Year days.  The days of years past.  In geardagum, when we had any sort of appointment we would go somewhere afterwards - shopping, or the book store.  Being as this is August, stores are starting to put out Halloween stuff.  Michael's was only a mile away, and on the way home.  I thought I should go look at Halloween Stuff, at craft supplies, instead of running back home the way I usually do.  At a volunteer appreciation party last year I was talking to a friend I hadn't seen for awhile, not since I lost Bob.  She asked if I was still getting out, as she had a friend who had lost her husband and basically had become a recluse.  I completely understand that (and Covid gave me the perfect excuse because people weren't supposed to go out anyway).  I do have the museum - and that's about it.  Otherwise, I really would prefer just to stay at home.

So I went to Michael's and looked at the Halloween stuff and craft supplies.  This may have been a mistake.  The Halloween stuff reminded me of how Rob and Jeff and Bob and I would be getting together designing the haunted trail and planning this year's props.  And I walked to the craft supplies and could almost peek down an aisle to see Bob standing there, looking at paints and brushes.  I realized that I was being careful with my breathing - long slow breaths in through the nose, quietly exhaling through the mouth.  Keep the tears behind the eyeballs.  On the outside, I was just quietly walking through the aisles.  On the inside I was throwing my head back and howling.

This is my life now.  And I came the hell home.

Kim' mother passed this afternoon.  She has taken care of her for some six years now.  I think she will be drifting for a bit.  She likes to drive, so there will be some road trips while she decompresses.  Maybe I'll get to see her again.

 

Condensed Milk and Grilled Cheese

 Ebaida and I are reading "Good Omens" together - she for the first time, mine for the upteenth ever since one of the English professors gave me his reviewer's copy when it first came out in 1990.

One of the main characters is Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell, a decrepit old man who seems to be addicted to drinking sweet condensed milk straight out of the can.  Every time he was doing that, I could almost feel/taste that rich viscous sweetness on my tongue.

I love sweetened condensed milk.  When I was a kid, my Mom would let us have a small bowlful of it, sometimes mixed with lemon juice to cut the sweetness a bit.  It's good in coffee.  It's superlative mixed with Guiness Stout to make Jamaican punch.  Whenever I've made a lemon meringue pie, I use a rubber spatula to wipe out the can - and then lick it.  I have sometimes eaten a teaspoonful straight out of the can.

But I have never just punched a hole with a can opener and drunk it straight out of the can.

So I did.

It's thick enough that you sort of have to suck it out.  I got my first glorious full mouthful and my teeth started to curl.  I happily sat there, sucking and reading.  After a bit I started to sweat.  Then to shake.  I made it through not quite a half a can, or about 600 calories of sugar.

I am now gulping strong black coffee, grabbing onto that bitterness like a drowning man gulps for air.  I'm not sure adding caffeine to the mix is the wisest idea but what the hell.  In for a penny . . . .

I will never do it again.  But it was glorious.

It reminded me of a time when Bob and I did something similarly indulgent - something heard about but never tried.  Then one day we drove down to the gas station/diner for a late lunch.  It was off hours, and we were the only customers, so we asked for a special order:  Two grilled cheese sandwiches and a hamburger - but use the grilled cheese sandwiches as the bun.  So, top to bottom (or vice verse) - grilled cheese sandwich, hamburger with fixins', grilled cheese sandwich.

Buttery crispy toasted white bread, ooey gooey melted American cheese - best hamburger bun ever.  I can't remember the rest of the day; maybe we went home and slept it off.  We never did that again - but from time to time, years afterwards, we talked about how good that was (the rest of the day, maybe not so much)

Every now and then you just have to do it.  There are the big challenges in life - moving to a strange town where you don't know anyone or have any job prospects is one (BTDT).  I've gone scuba diving, skydiving,  rock climbing.  I've walked into an aviary with a pissed-off bald eagle who didn't want me in there.

And sometimes it's punching a hole in a can of condensed milk and taking that first gulp.  

 

August 3: The Ring

 It's strange to think about how much the world has changed in one lifetime.

August 3, 1972, fifty years ago.  I was living in the dorm, in the women's tower (Bob was living in the men's tower, with a common area in between).

In these days of instant, world-wide communication, it's weird to remember that I wrote letters home.  There were no phones in our rooms; there were pay phones in the hallway.  And if you were going to phone long-distance, you waited until 9:00 p.m. when the rates went down.

Bob had decided quite early on in our relationship that I was the one he was going to marry.  We met in January and in about three weeks he was proposing.  I suggested that he was rushing things a little.  He said he wouldn't pester me about it as long as I said that I would eventually marry him, so I did.

Which mean that eventually we were looking at rings.  I laugh now when the Diamond Cartel suggests that a man should pay about three month's salary for an engagement ring (I have no idea how they came up with that as a way of guilting a guy into spending way too much money).  It's funny, because my ring cost $150 - which was likely about three month's salary for a poor college student in the 1970's.

I wasn't interested in big, or fancy.  What I did want was a marquis cut - a diamond-shaped diamond.  And one day, at Zales in the mall, we spotted it.  A wee chip of a diamond (I think it's 1/5 caret), marquis cut, $150.  We put a down payment on it.

Back then, we both had part-time jobs, making around $2 an hour.  Our respective parents (and Bob's scholarship) paid for our dorms and tuition and books, but that's how we made our spending money.  We pooled resources and every couple of weeks we'd go make a payment on that ring.

On weekends we'd wander the streets together, picking up glass bottles that people had thrown from their cars and taking them to stores to refund for 5 cents each.

One day in July, we were in the mall (we'd go hang out in the mall because there was air conditioning there) and the salesman from Zales spotted us - he was nice enough to come out of the store and trot down the hall.  He told us that Zales was having a 10% off sale and that we could take advantage if we paid the ring off that week.  10% was $15 - that's an awful lot of glass bottles at 5 cents each.  Once again, we pooled resources and the ring was ours.

Except that I wouldn't put it on.  I was old fashioned enough that I wanted my parent's blessing.  So I wrote them a letter and told them I would call them for a response in a week (the post was slower in those days).  Bob kept the ring in a drawer in his room and I would peek at it from time to time.

August 3 finally came around, and we paced and jittered all day until 9:00 p.m. came and I made the call and got the blessing (of course - who didn't love Bob).  Then I slammed the phone down and went charging off at full speed to head over to Bob's room.  He let me get to the stairwell before he whistled and started waving the ring box at me.  I slammed on the brakes, did a fast 180, and came pelting down the hall back to him.  Of course he had to hold the ring way over his head while I jumped and tried to climb on him.

And there, in the hallway of the dorm, we got engaged. August 3, 1972.

I've known a lot of couples who "made do" with a less-expensive ring until later in their marriage when they could afford a "nice" ring.   Not us.  I would never give up the memories of skipping an ice cream or taking those long walks hand-in-hand while keeping an eye out for bottles.  Or my excitement at spotting this little marquis cut diamond.  Jumping in the air grabbing for it, finally putting it on.  Engaged to marry Bob.